When the Jehovah's Witnesses Come Knocking

I'm not quite sure why the Jehovah's Witnesses always find me, but I suspect it may have started back in high school when my father sent two disciples up to my bedroom one Saturday morning for some weekend evangelizing. Fortunately, two of my friends had stayed overnight, so we got to wake up with the Witnesses standing above us, like a pair of visiting angels. My father stood jackknifed in the hallway, trying to cover up his fits of laughter while we were in our jammies, blissfully still in that post slumber teenage fog that rarely lifts before mid-afternoon, listening to their soft lyrical voices urging us to accept Jehovah.

I lost them for several years while moving up and down the east coast doing the six year college stint. And they never crossed the Atlantic for me when I was living abroad.  But once I settled down on the Cape, they came.

And they've never stopped knocking on my door.

We've developed this peculiar relationship over the years, and I figure the only way out of it is to move back to England or pop my clogs.


Grace and the Jehovah's come knocking every two to three weeks, and I've got so attuned to their visits,  I can sense one coming, just as I can predict a summer storm. I really do like Grace-I've given her that name because she knows my name and I'll be damned if I don't know hers. Her visits are usually in the middle of a deadline or when I'm in the middle of a Facebook creeping session or dredging chicken, my fingers clumped with flour.  She'll have one or two ladies with her, some old, some young, always in proper skirts and sensible shoes, clutching well worn bibles and copies of the Watchtower and Awake!

The latest lit drop

 I get the feeling my house serves as a training site for the entire region since Grace usually brings new faces every time she calls.

"Look how easy that was," Grace says.  "See, she looks forward to our visits. They all do. They're actually excited when we come."

I've met a lot of them over the years, but my favorite Witness is Connie, a 85 year old Brazilian who threw her arms around my son as he made his way across the front lawn after I slipped and told her he didn't believe in creationism.

"Do I look like I came from a monkey? she asked, cupping his face in her wrinkly hands.

I open the door, and stand on the threshold. I've never invited them in, though I have often thought Grace would probably love a cup of tea and a cookie.  It must be darn hard getting doors slammed in your faces all day long, but I resist the urge to feed them, and we exchange pleasantries on the step. She has one of those warm and welcoming faces, and if I wasn't so careful, I'd be tempted to confide in her. 

"Grace, I went 90 in a 65 mile zone."

"Grace, I took out "Fifty Shades of Grey" from the library."

"Grace, it's two weeks overdue."
 
She's a stunningly stylish lady, her glossy brown hair neatly resting in a loose bun. I'm tempted to pull the bobby pins out and let her hair tumble over her shoulders. She loves her bright lipstick and wears fashionable clothes, but then again, since I work from home in yoga pants and cardigans, anything besides elastic waist bands looks stylish. She loves cats and gardening, which is a good thing since I to steer our conversations to fluff topics and avoid religious ones since I skipped Sunday school classes and went to Leo's Bakery instead.

I get the feeling some one's watching me.

We'll chat for five or ten minutes and she always asks about my mother in law, Pam, who lives in England, my two cats, James and Nibs, and the kids. Pam knows Grace, too, and if Pam lived in the states, she'd be on the biweekly call list. Pam got me out of a call once and still remembers when I crouched behind a sofa and begged her to answer the door.

"Please Pam, I'll make you the best gin and tonic this side of the Mississippi. Just this once."


We'll talk about the weather, what I'm cooking for dinner, and my work schedule until we're both tired of dancing around the real reason- why she's planted on my doorstep.

Jehovah.

I'm not a particularly religious person. Living with a bunch of atheists will do that to you, but I know it's important to Grace, so I listen as she reads a few bible passages, praying she's picked out some short ones. Plus, I figure it must be nice to get through a few verses without having a string of expletives come from behind a closed door. While she's reading, she pauses and looks at me, hoping that I'll have a come to Jehovah moment.

She's been working on me for years and I'm sure she's tabulated her return on investment and it's not in her favor. I know she's under pressure to convert me.

"But Elder, I've almost got her."

"Okay, 1,545 visits and she's not budging."

"Rome wasn't built in a day."

Grace hands me a few issues of the Watchtower and Awake!

"They are some great articles in here," she says.

I promise to read them or at least skim through since she'll often ask how I liked the last issue and I still have those dreadful high school flashbacks when I hadn't read an assignment and couldn't answer the teacher's question.
 
I'm tempted to end our relationship, to tell Grace it's over, it's time for us to move on. That's it's just simply not working out. But it's not that simple.

I like Grace.

I can't say I look forward to her visits, and I confess I've dropped to the floor a few times when I saw Grace pull into my drive. As I lay on the rug, spreadeagled, holding my breath,  my eyes tightly closed, I feel a surge of remorse and self-loathing.

"I'm a 50 year old woman playing dead on the living room floor."

"How have I let the relationship go on for this long?"

"Can Grace sense that I'm home?"

"Is she peeking in the window?"

"Hmmm, I've just made a batch of snicker doodles, should I ask them in?"